


Tending

by Paraxdisepink



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caretaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraxdisepink/pseuds/Paraxdisepink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written by request. A serious story in which Horatio has to help Archie pee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tending

Horatio had no idea how much such a simple task as drinking water could tire a man. But perhaps it was not even the water. Perhaps it had been the violence of the earlier nightmare or the seemingly insuperable lack of motivation that had drained what little strength remained in Archie. He had lain primarily silent for the past hour, not asleep, not fully awake. Not dead but certainly not alive.

The picture had at first reminded Horatio of Finch. But in truth this was far worse than that, not as simple a medical matter as getting nourishment into Archie before his body began to break down. This was not even like the debacle with Bunting, a case of bringing a man around who in all honesty meant nothing to him. It was more like the struggle with the Spanish fire ship; he could either succeed somehow at what must be done or allow something he had held dear to be destroyed. In two years Horatio had not forgotten what Archie meant to him, and the fact that he was to blame for the grueling torment of Archie’s captivity had grown more painfully haunting with each moment he sat here. 

He had tried talking. Perhaps he had never been given to chatterering, but they needed something to fill the silence. God only knew where Archie’s thoughts might wander if Horatio let them. He told Archie simple things, that the rain was still coming down hard and that Her Grace had said one thing or another. Archie seemed quite attracted to the Duchess. Speaking seemed to require too much energy, however. Archie would either answer him in a single word, nod, or simply make a face. That was when he responded at all. 

There were the obvious questions. Was he in pain from his stint in that hole in the ground he had mentioned? Had he hurt something in there? Was there anything one might do for him? Clearly, he could not walk. He had not been able to since before Horatio and his men had arrived. 

Archie only weakly shook his head, grimacing as though to say he could not separate the aches of his mind from those of his body and that he did not care enough to try and isolate his ills so that he might be better helped. 

There was a measure of dark comedy in the situation, Horatio grudgingly supposed; for the first time since joining the Navy he wished for his father. Doctor Hornblower may not have known what to do with him, but he had a way with the sick. Archie had refused food twice. Horatio had not pushed, supposing that his nightmare had genuinely unsettled him. Water was most important in any case. A third refusal, however, and Horatio resolved that he would feed him by force. 

When it was time to try again, Horatio picked up the bowl of gruel the guards had left, trying to smile halfway cheerfully. “Do you think you’re ready to eat?” he asked gently. Perhaps if he stayed calm and patient Archie would be more inclined to cooperate. 

Archie’s lids fluttered at the sound of Horatio’s voice. He had started to drift off again. He could not be allowed to fall back asleep without eating. God only knew when he had eaten last. What if he grew unresponsive again and never came to? Three cups of water might have sustained him until his nerves calmed, but Horatio still found himself eager to get every bit of nourishment into Archie that he could. 

Tired blue eyes focused on the bowl he held. Archie bit his lip. Horatio could not blame him for the face he made; cold oatmeal was hardly a thing to rouse a man’s appetite. But the stuff was thankfully bland and would be easy for Archie to stomach. 

This time, Archie did not refuse outright, but instead lay quiet, as if to say that if Horatio chose to feed him he would not fight, but did not care either way. That was the best Horatio could hope for now. Archie could not be cured with a few sentimental words and a little water. First his health had to be restored. He would have to be taught to want his life later. 

Scraping the spoon through the bowl, Horatio slid off his chair and lowered himself onto the edge of Archie’s bed. The stuff would taste awful, but there was nothing for it. He braced a hand behind Archie’s head and brought the spoon to his mouth. Archie’s face wrinkled, still flushed with fever. He squeezed his eyes shut as he opened his lips to take the oatmeal in. His face scrunched tighter. A drop of sweat shone on his forehead in the effort to swallow. 

His eyes rolled back after he managed to get the stuff down, features sinking. “I’m going to be sick.” 

“No you’re not.” Horatio smoothed some of the hair back from Archie’s face, heavy with sweat and grime. Dear God he looked a mess. But he needed to eat. “Here.” 

Scooping up another spoonful, Horatio tried again. Archie managed only slightly more easily than before, but with enough difficultly that Horatio could see he had no chance of getting him to finish the bowl. 

Four spoonfuls, that was enough to fill Archie’s belly with something substantial, something to stop the famished queasiness that must be there if Archie would only give into it. Archie said nothing as Horatio set the bowl aside, but perhaps the less Horatio pushed on him the more Archie would be forced to ask for on his own once his belly decided it liked having food again. Perhaps next time he would be hungrier. 

Taking up the pitcher of water instead, Horatio poured a cup. Perhaps Archie would not find the oatmeal so loathsome if he could quickly wash the taste away. 

“Here . . .” Keeping his hand behind Archie’s head, Horatio raised the cup to his lips. “Time to drink some more.” 

Archie turned his head away, his features hardening. “No,” he rasped. “No more water.” 

Horatio bit his lip to hold in the instant frustration that Archie would start this again, reverting after he had tried so hard. Damn it. Did Archie not see that he would die if he did not eat and drink? He was so sick. But Archie did not care whether or not he died now. He wanted to die. Horatio’s heart sank, but he drew in a breath to hold himself together. 

“Archie, you have to drink.” 

Pale lids fluttered, as if Horatio’s raising his voice that little pained his head. His lips moved, perhaps a sign that he was, in fact, thirsty. “I’ve drunk enough. I . . .” Giving up, Archie dragged a weak hand over his belly, closing his eyes again. 

Horatio’s chest tightened worriedly. “What’s the matter?” He pressed a hand to Archie’s middle through the blankets, only for Archie’s features to strain as though with some sort of pain. Immediately, Horatio pulled his hand away. What if Archie truly could not eat? What if he had damaged something in his starvation attempt and would not be able to keep food down? He would die. “Archie . . .” Horatio pressed urgently when Archie did not answer. 

After a long moment, Archie turned his face away a second time, running his tongue over his cracked lips. He swallowed hard. “I can’t move, Horatio,” he said miserably, his hoarse voice full of defeat. 

No. Of course he could not. That was painfully obvious. But what did that have to do with drinking water? 

“I know,” was all Horatio could patiently think to say. 

Another pause held. Archie’s lower lip curled under. A touch of color spread into his cheeks not from the fever. He looked as though he were trying not to cry, and no wonder considering the quiet words that finally tripped out. 

“Can’t make it to the privy.” 

It was so contrary to what Horatio expected that he laughed, in relief if nothing else. But when he looked at the sheer humiliation in Archie’s face his gut twisted with how inadvertently cruel a thing that was to do. 

“Here.” He reached under the bed for the chamber pot the guards had left, placing it on top of the blankets where Archie could reach it. “I’ll wait outside, if that’s what’s bothering you.” 

He got up, making toward the door. Yet the silence that followed told him he had once again done something cruel and wrong. He could not afford that; Archie was in such a state that a wrong word might undo all his work in bringing him around the little he had. Horatio turned when he heard no rustling of the bedclothes, prepared to explain that he had simply wished to give Archie his privacy. 

When he looked at Archie again he realized just how stupid a thought that was. Archie’s arms had not moved from his sides outside the blankets. His fingers stretched in a feeble attempt to reach for the pot, but . . . . He could not lift his arms. The cutting shame of what that meant was writ plainly upon his face. He closed his eyes, wetting his lips again. Horatio’s mouth tightened. Archie would only make a mess of either himself or the bedclothes fumbling with the pot and his own garments. He required help. 

Horatio fought the urge to quit the room, as though to leave this to a doctor or loblolly boy, mindful of Archie’s dignity as well as his own. But there was no one. The Don had allowed him the necessary things as a _favor_ out of fondness for him, the rest was his responsibility. If a prisoner wished to starve himself to death it was not in his interest to stop him. Damn it, was not suicide a mortal sin to these Catholics? But Horatio grudgingly supposed that he had received more help from the Spaniards in this venture than from Archie himself. 

Color crept up into Horatio’s cheeks as he approached the bed. He did not know why. He should have expected this. Logically, nursing Archie back to health would involve more than getting food and water into him. He would have to bathe him, help him dress, comb his hair, and teach him to walk again. It did not matter; this was no more a time for skittishness than battle was for fear. He would do what must be done. 

Archie’s expression did nothing to ease Horatio as he sat down on the bed again. His eyes were still closed. He looked so feeble. Horatio found himself painfully aware of how Archie hated himself for it, and hated him for it in his own way. A part of Horatio was glad Archie should be so mortified now, hoping the shame would teach him never to starve himself sick again. The rest of him felt that shame as viscerally as though it were his own. He could not imagine being in Archie’s shoes now. 

“Here . . .” Horatio could only think to speak gently as he started to peel the covers back. Something close to pain had entered Archie’s features, that horrid twisting up inside when dropping dead on the spot would be preferable to the indignity at hand. Any sign of reluctance on his part would only make it worse. The last thing Horatio wanted was for Archie to feel filthy. “It’s all right.” Horatio managed to reach up and pat Archie’s shoulder. 

It was far from that. Peeling the covers all the way back, Horatio looked down at Archie’s body. He would have to unbutton his trousers. Archie was too weak for the fine coordination to do it for himself. 

The room grew painfully quiet as Horatio reached down, his fingers tensely grabbing a hold of the rough cloth to slide the buttons free. He could feel Archie tensing as well, warm but rigid, resisting what was happening. Horatio tried, in his own stinging discomfort, not to glance up at his face. Archie had turned his head away as far as he could, his features squeezed tight in something far more agonizing than simple embarrassment. Glancing down again, Horatio tried to concentrate on the buttons. He did not know what to say to alleviate the awfulness, or why Archie was biting his lower lip white. 

An excruciatingly awkward moment passed before Horatio had the buttons open. He had to push the shirt up, his fingers brushing against Archie’s belly. The flesh was taut, quivering. Horatio frowned. Was Archie that ill or did he loathe being touched that much? What had been done to him? 

Trying to pay Archie’s obvious horror no mind, Horatio pushed the chamber pot between Archie’s thighs. He swallowed hard then, silencing his own embarrassment as he forced his fingers to curl around Archie’s flesh, lifting it up to aim toward the pot. Horatio tried to do so gently – the flesh was soft and easily hurt – but there was something outright alarming in the way Archie turned his head further away. His entire body went rigid, fingers curling weakly into the blankets. Horatio found himself discreetly studying the flesh in his hand for a sign of injury or infection, but found nothing. 

“It’s all right,” He choked out. He cleared his throat, the color stinging stronger in his cheeks. 

Like before, nothing was right. Archie’s features contorted and for a moment Horatio sat there with the length of him in his hand, fearing nothing would happen; Archie simply lay too tense. But when nature took over Horatio looked away, finding it improper to watch the small stream of liquid flowing into the chamber pot. Instead he tried to focus on the clinical fact that it was an encouraging sign to see Archie’s body working properly and not ruined from the lack of food and water. He tried not to see that Archie was still biting his lip and clutching uselessly at the blanket. His face burned red, stained with humiliation and something more worrying that Horatio did not understand. 

He let go of Archie when he was done, taking the pot away. He had only to walk to the window and empty it, washing it out with rainwater. All the while he was aware of Archie motionless on the bed. Something was very wrong. 

Horatio turned back around. “Archie . . .” 

Archie’s eyes were open, but he wore that same empty look Horatio had seen Simpson put there. But why had his thoughts returned there? Whatever the case, distracting him was the only thing to do. 

“Let’s get these clothes off you. See if we can’t clean you up a bit, eh?” 

The soldiers had left a basin of water and a cloth. He might as well clean Archie up while he already had his trousers open and his shirt untucked. No doubt Archie would feel better after a wash. He received no answer, but none was needed. Grabbing the waistband of Archie’s trousers, Horatio started to peel them off. 

All at once, everything went wrong. The touch seemed to set off some inner sensor. Archie started to thrash, those frantic convulsions Horatio had seen before. He snatched his hands away, staring dumbly for a blank moment. Archie was having a fit. 

“Archie . . .” He called out as if that could stop it. That was foolish, but he suddenly felt helpless and inept. This had had never happened when they had been alone before; there had been Clayton, Styles and Matthews, even Hunter the last time. 

He did the only thing he could think of, grab Archie’s shoulder to try and hold him down. That seemed to make it worse. Archie’s eyes went wide, wild. His body twitched and jerked more desperately, much more violently than he had strength for at present. Horatio’s heart sped, fearing the force of it would break him in his weak state. He could scarcely move; how could he survive this? 

“Archie . . .” Horatio’s voice was choked. He held him down with one hand so that Archie would thrash against nothing but the soft bed, stroking frantically over Archie’s face and hair with the other, anything to break the spell of the fit and get Archie to look at him. “Archie . . .” 

The convulsions eventually subsided. Archie lay limp as a rag once they did, so weakened that he could only pant shallowly for breath. He could not lift his own head up to get enough air into his lungs. 

It was too wrenching to watch him rasp for air. Horatio gathered him up, albeit clumsily, balancing Archie’s heavier body against his chest and rubbing a hand over his back. 

“There, there. Come on.” He steadied the back of Archie’s head, holding him as upright as he could so that Archie could breathe easier. Archie drew in air in long, choked draughts. His heart was beating fast, almost dangerously considering how weak he was. Horatio pressed him closer, as though to pass the more even rhythm of his own breathing into Archie’s body. 

The panic subsided when Archie seemed to remember where he was. He went limp as a sack of flour against Horatio’s chest, slumping forward until his forehead fell onto Horatio’s shoulder. The best thing would be to set him down, but Horatio realized he did not want to let go. His arms had wrapped tight as though he were clutching at some broken, precious object that would crack all the way to pieces if he did not hold it just right. Archie seemed safe against him, where Horatio knew he could do no further harm to himself. 

But the simple fact was that Archie was sinking down in his hold. Something seemed to have given way inside him. He seemed weighed down by his own pain. “I feel sick,” he murmured thinly. He could not be comfortable like this; Archie needed to lie down. 

Reluctantly, Horatio let go, easing Archie back onto the pillow. “You’ll get better,” he said, pushing aside his hair tousled by the fit. 

Archie bit his lip again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The men don’t want me to. They don’t want to wait. They shouldn’t have to – not Matthew or Styles anyway. I almost –“ 

Horatio cut him off with a shake of his head, laying his fingers against Archie’s cracked lips. “Shh . . .” He knew what was on Archie’s mind – he thought he had almost got them all killed the night of _Papillon_ raid. But Archie would never come out of this if he kept dwelling on the past. Why allow something for which Archie was not to blame to devour his future? 

Yet Archie spoke the cutting truth. The men were waiting for Archie to die. They wanted him to die so that they might be away from here all the faster. If he did not make it through the night they might pretend to be respectfully solemn tomorrow, all the while thinking their commanding officer a naïve fool for not seeing that it was for the best. Horatio squeezed his eyes shut in a flash of anger. They did not know Archie. They were selfish and cruel. They did not know what it was like to have a lonely, isolated upbringing finally alleviated after all these years. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Horatio found that he could not take his hand away, smoothing Archie’s hair and shoulder. He swallowed hard against a burning knot of emotion, ducking his head. “I care enough for the lot of them.” 

He watched the change in Archie’s face, the wave of emotion he tried to hold in. His eyes closed tight and his tongue swept across his lips. He swallowed hard. 

“Do you?” He murmured after a moment, the words thin and tired. 

But Horatio thought he fancied an echo of hope there, a sign that Archie _wanted_ that at least. He saw it in Archie’s eyes when he opened them again. Archie simply needed some sort of anchor. 

With a strong lump in his throat, Horatio nodded. “Now shh . . . “ He stroked a hand over Archie’s hair again, a gesture he could not seem to refrain from. “Try to sleep now.” 

His hand did not leave Archie’s hair. Archie had drunk and eaten a little, not to mention that the fit had exhausted him. It was time for him to rest now. Archie’s mouth tightened as though he would refuse – perhaps he feared another nightmare – but Horatio continued to run a hand over him gently, soothing the protest away. 

Horatio could have pretended not to see the tear trickling onto Archie’s cheek as his features relaxed. For the sake of pride and dignity, both of them would have preferred that. But he could not help taking his fingertip and brushing that tear away, touching Archie’s cheek gently. It was becoming apparent that Archie needed gentleness and human contact more than he needed his vanity. Indeed, Horatio could see that his compulsive stroking was calming him. 

He kept at it, stroking over Archie’s shoulders and chest, feeling his breathing slow under his hand. Eventually, his head rolled to one side and he looked halfway peaceful for the first time since Horatio had come here. There was nothing to do then but gently pull the blankets up and watch over him while he slept.


End file.
